It happened so quickly. Twenty-four hours ago I was checking out his bottom, and in a flash I realised my mojo had finally returned to the building.
I thought it had packed up shop and had deserted me forever. The lesson here is not to push the mojo – it will hit you like a sharp tweak to the nipple when you least expect it to.
(Ooh...a sharp tweak to the nipple....tweak my ni...OK, OK, fuck, focus Peas. Christ.)
Men have largely been pissing me off recently. Either they seem too keen or too nonchalant. This annoyed me no end.
Over the last few weeks, I'd walk into a club filled with supposedly dashing-looking okes and I'd feel nothing. Not even a twinge downstairs, I didn't even like talking to them.
Now all I can think about is how big their nomthondos are.
But it's back, and oh thank God! It's back to the point where I am once again the old me. I'm thinking about boys bottoms, their legs, how it would be to kiss them again and boofing in the very primal sense.
When the mojo returns, suddenly one feels like a sexy bitch again.
I must've thought about shtoinking, oh perhaps 63 times yesterday. And how great it would be when I get rogered again.
There are three types of shtoinks:
The first two are as equally fantastic, dependent on circumstance.
1)the hectic, tear-my-clothes-off-right-now-big-boy-take-me-now-on-this-here-table-top and-fuck-me-hard kind;
2)the slow-foreplay-first-making-(ak)-love-stare-into-my-horny-and-lustful-eyes kind; and
3) the sex with your dildo kind
No prizes for guessing which kind I'm currently getting right now.
But I'm just happy that I am driven to distraction by horny, bad lustful thoughts.
I told him that I was checking out his rear-end. This probably wasn't the best idea, but it turns out it was:
I took him home and he slept over last night. Yes. Mid-week and everything.